


I followed a spark and it led straight to your heart

by annabeth_writes



Series: Birthday Trope Tournament [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, I just don't have time for that, Mild Language, Robb wins Au, Sansa gets everything that she deserves, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Wot5K au, and Jon gets everything that he deserves, no white walkers in this story, playing fast and loose with canon to make this work, they get everything they deserve together, very little past some of ACoK is applicable here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: Sansa feels her mark form the moment that they take her father's head. Jon feels it as he rides south in the name of vengeance. With the bond drawing them ever closer to one another, it's only a matter of time until they collide.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Birthday Trope Tournament [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958608
Comments: 42
Kudos: 285





	I followed a spark and it led straight to your heart

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been a long time coming. This is one of the fics I was supposed to write for my birthday celebration back in June, but I lost a lot of my inspiration and then I quit my job, decided to go back to school for a whole new career, and got a new job! So I've been pretty busy but here I am, with a lot of inspiration so hopefully a lot of new writing will becoming soon enough, starting with this one.
> 
> Basically, the concept of this fic is that a person's soulmate mark forms during a "life-changing event" for that particular person. It'll make more sense within the story. I hope that you all like it!
> 
> Title: Bridges - Aisha Badru
> 
> Edit: Since it apparently needs to be said, all comments on all of my fics are moderated. If you're going to be an asshole, I will delete your comment with a smile on my face and never think about it again. If there is something that you don't like about the stories that I choose to write, that fancy little 'x' button on the top corner of your screen costs you zero dollars to press. Feel free to go write your own fics.

Her screams began the moment that Joffrey called for her father’s head, nearly drowned out by the crowd shouting and Cersei trying in vain to rein in her terrible son. Sansa pleaded and cursed, her cries growing louder and more guttural as she felt a fierce burning upon her back. A city guardsman caught her in his arms as she lurched forward, caring little for how she twisted away as the pain grew more intense and her mind spun with wild desperation. The queen’s eyes swung around, wide and filled with a raging panic that Sansa had never seen before.

That’s when she knew that it was truly going to happen. There was no stopping Joffrey. Not when he looked positively gleeful as they shoved her father to her knees. Sansa’s vision darkened as the pain worsened, slumping in the guard’s arms. The sun glinted off of a familiar sword and as much as she wished to scream her anguish in an endless howl, she couldn’t even bring herself to remain upright. The last thing that she saw before the darkness claimed her was Ice swinging down in a wide arc.

When she woke, her eyes fluttered open only to be met with an unfamiliar room, smaller and plainer than the one she had before. There was an ache in her heart as if a piece of her had been wrenched away for the second time. First, they took Lady from her. Now her father. She turned her face into her pillow and let the tears loose, trying her best not to notice the persistent sting in her back. She knew what it meant, even when she first felt it at the Great Sept. Her mother had described it to her long ago when Sansa first heard of soulmates.

Her poor mother.

Did she know the moment that it happened? Did her mark flare with pain when they took her soulmate’s head from his body? Sansa knew that her mother first received her sign the moment that she learned about the death of her betrothed. Fate entwined her with Brandon Stark’s younger brother and year by year, brick by brick, they built their love. Now he was gone because of a cruel king that Sansa once thought she loved more than anything. She couldn’t bear to see her own mark. To be tied to him in any way.

A monster.

He was a monster.

He couldn’t be Sansa’s soulmate. Not after what he did. She never thought she could hate someone so much. Joffrey promised her mercy for her father and instead stained the steps of Baelor’s Sept with his blood. She couldn’t stop thinking of it, unable to keep food down or even stand on her own two feet for nearly a fortnight. When they finally forced her from her bed, she tried to fight them with everything she had. Yet Sansa was no match for the guards they brought in and only submitted when one of them hissed out that they would strip her bare and drop her into the prepared bath if need be.

Once she relented, they stepped on the other side of the screen and she numbly began removing her gown as two unfamiliar handmaidens waited. Their twin gasps reached her ears as she turned away from them and Sansa cringed away as they stared openly at her back, moving as quickly as she could until she was submerged into the tub. No one could see the mark now. She still couldn’t bear to see it herself. But she should have known that it wouldn’t be that easy. Sansa noticed one of the maids slip away and the familiar perfume that wafted through the air a short length of time later made it quite clear where she’d gone.

“Lean forward.”

Sansa sank her teeth into her lower lip, a shudder running through her at Cersei’s command. She wanted to refuse more than anything. If she were Arya, she’d throw herself at the queen without a second thought and claw her eyes from her skull. But she wasn’t Arya. Arya was gone.  _ Dead, _ her mind whispered. Sansa inhaled sharply, refusing to believe it.

“I won’t repeat myself,” Cersei warned.

Gripping at the edges of the tub, Sansa slowly leaned forward as her eyes shut tightly. Nothing but silence greeted her, though she braced herself for the worst. A noise of triumph that no one could deny the truth that she belonged to Joffrey. Even Robb and her mother could do nothing to spring her from this prison if she was the king’s soulmate. Instead, Cersei let out a small hiss through her teeth and moved forward until Sansa could see her out of the corner of her eye.

“This would all be much easier if you were a match to my son,” she said through gritted teeth.

Her heart leapt in her chest, hope filling her as she fought to control her reaction. Sansa turned her head, meeting those glittering green eyes that she once thought were so beautiful. Now they were as hard as emeralds and twice as cruel. She had never seen it, but Sansa imagined that wildfire looked similar to Cersei Lannister’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said quietly.

Something flashed through Cersei’s eyes. It almost looked like disappointment, though Sansa couldn’t be sure. All that she knew was relief.

“Save your sympathy for yourself, little dove,” she said, reaching out to brush a cool touch over Sansa’s cheek.

It took everything in her not to pull away. To spit upon the queen’s face and spill her fury there and then. To let them see that she was a wolf too.

“You cannot marry my son and your brother is in open rebellion, which makes you a prisoner of the crown.”

Sansa’s blood ran cold as her face paled and her eyes grew wide. Cersei gave her the smallest of smiles before turning away, leaving the small chamber with the lightest whisper of her gown over the stone floor. Sansa felt as if she might faint once more, barely aware of herself as she bathed quickly before rising from the water. When the maids moved away to fetch her a shift and gown, Sansa stepped close to the tall looking glass that stood in the corner of the bedchamber.

Turning around slowly, she let the drying sheet drop from her shoulders to her waist, her breath catching in her throat when she saw the mark that ran the entire length of her spine in shades of grey and black. It was not a beautiful sight, but rather a terrifying one. Yet it was glorious all the same, in a feral sort of way. A mark that Sansa would have expected on Arya’s skin, yet there it was upon her own. A sword, long and proportional. She’d never seen one like it before, though there was no mistaking the figure on the pommel.

A snarling direwolf.

*****

The searing pain flared across his ribs as he rode south, Ghost nipping at the heels of his stolen horse. Jon nearly ran them all into the ground, as if each of the seven hells chased him. He left the Night’s Watch before swearing their oaths, though even that may not have stopped him. All that he knew was the untamed fury in his chest at the thought of his father’s blood wetting the ground so far south, on the order of a boy king that Jon hated at first sight. There was no need to avoid the main road. No one cared that a bastard traveled south.

Not until he reached the Riverlands and stood in the shadow of a castle where he would never belong.

No one asked for his name, not even when he asked to see the king. They assumed he was one Northman or another and there was no one familiar about to identify him as he trudged through the war camp and across the drawbridge. Jon wondered if he’d be tossed out on his ass the second Lady Catelyn laid eyes upon him and could only hope that Robb had enough influence over his bannermen to be able to keep his bastard half-brother around. Even if he had to stay with the lowest of soldiers, he’d do it just to fight in this war.

It turned out that his worry was all for naught. As soon as Robb caught sight of him entering the council chamber, he crossed the room in several long strides and yanked Jon into a tight hug. They thumped at one another and passed a look of shared grief between them before Jon really studied the boy he’d grown with, a boy that was a man now. Robb seemed to bear the weight of the world upon his shoulders and Jon realized why soon enough when he saw the bronze and iron crown that laid upon the table.

He was King in the North now.

Jon didn’t hesitate to fall to one knee, ignoring the stare of every other figure in the room as he offered up his sword to Robb’s service, vowing to serve and protect him for all his days. Whatever he expected to hear in return, it wasn’t a disbelieving laugh just before Robb snatched the sword from his grip and held it to the light to inspect it closer.

“Bloody hell, Snow,” he said, turning it this way and that. “How’d you get a sword like this?”

Ser Rodrik stepped forward with a look of interest as Jon rose to his feet, guilt stirring in his chest. He hadn’t left the sword behind, though he should have. Saving Lord Commander Mormont from two murderers that resented being banished to the Wall earned him that sword, yet he felt as if he couldn’t truly claim it. Not when it would no longer defend the Wall from the threat beyond. There was just a part of him that couldn’t bear to leave it behind as if it was another limb that couldn’t be cut away so easily.

“It was a gift,” he said quietly.

“Valyrian steel,” Ser Rodrik said, narrowing his eyes.

“Undoubtedly yours,” Robb said, touching his fingers to the direwolf on the pommel. “Where’s Ghost anyhow?”

“Hunting, I’d imagine.”

His brother nodded, a grin breaking out over his face as he handed the sword back over to him.

“He’ll find Grey Wind soon enough,” Robb said, guiding him to the table. “I hoped that you might come. I could use your counsel.”

“Robb.”

Lady Stark’s voice was quiet yet with a layer of steel that made her displeasure quite clear. Jon lifted his head, his eyes darting about the room only to be met with distrust in every eye that looked his way. It mattered to him little, for he intended to fight in his father’s name whether Robb’s men approved of him or not. Yet it struck at his chest all the same, knowing that his name alone earned such skepticism. Robb’s mother did not say another word, silenced by the look upon her son’s face only to be escorted from the room by a man so similar in coloring and resentment that he could only be her brother.

Once the others drifted out at Greatjon Umber’s insistence, Robb tossed himself into a chair with a great sigh and rubbed at his forehead. A cupbearer came forward to fill them both a cup of wine before stepping back to the corner once more, the young boy almost in awe as he stared from Robb to Jon and back. Sinking into a chair at his brother’s right, Jon took a slow drink of the wine and let it warm his belly before relaxing slowly, knowing that he’d not be turned away as long as his brother was there.

“Did you hear about it?” Robb asked, his voice trembling with sudden anger. “How they took his head with his own sword?”

Jon swallowed hard, closing his eyes at the thought of the Lannisters forcing such a man to his knees. All his life, Ned Stark seemed unbeatable. The kind of man that lived forever. It seemed a jest, in truth, that he died so soon. He felt as if a piece of his heart had been carved away. That’s what happened to an orphaned boy, he supposed. He drank more heavily of the wine, wishing that he could stop thinking of it. So he asked of Robb’s battle plans, wondering how they would push through the Lannisters to the Red Keep. As they spoke, his eyes fell to the crown.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” Robb asked, reaching out to tilt the circlet onto its side before letting it fall with a clanging thump. “They insisted.”

“On giving you a crown or naming you king?” Jon asked.

“Both.”

A dark look crossed Robb’s face as he shook his head and leaned back in his chair, taking a heavy drink.

“We wouldn’t swear ourselves to Joffrey,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “And none wanted to bend the knee to Stannis or Renly. Not when the North could have its independence.”

“What of Arya and Sansa?”

Robb’s eyes fell closed as he breathed in deeply, shaking his head.

“They have them.”

There was little to say after that. They drank in a way that they never had before, remembering all the times that Ned Stark had taken them to task for sneaking away to the tavern in winter town. With ale heavy in their bellies and the knowledge that their immediate future would be little else but blood and death, they felt as if they’d aged years in the months since they’d both left Winterfell.

“Mother will come around,” Robb promised after a while, a slight slur to his words. “So will the others, once you’ve saved my ass a few times.”

Jon didn’t feel quite as confident, though he kept his doubts to himself. As much as he wanted to promise that he would rejoin the Night’s Watch after they won the war, knowing it was the right thing to do, he found that the words died on his lips each time he tried. Though he didn’t fully understand it, Jon knew that there was something more for him. A different future to fight for.

The beautiful dragonfly inked across his ribs convinced him of it.

*****

No one could see her, hidden away in the shadows of the gallery. Even if they could, they had far more to worry about than a single woman. A city lost. An advancing army. A wrathful king. Sansa knew that it was dangerous for her to come out of the tunnels where she had been hidden away when the grey and white banners came within sight of King’s Landing. But as a moth drawn to the flame, she was pulled here by an innate need to see the end. To see  _ his _ end. Her golden prince. Her almost husband. Her monstrous tormenter.

King Joffrey, for all that it was worth now.

He’d raged and shouted, calling for her brother’s head even as the bells of surrender rang out across the city. The Kingsguard, though bound to him by solemn oaths, seemed on the brink of abandoning him. The goldcloaks had already done so, sensing the impending defeat and gathering what riches they could steal before fleeing the city by way of land or water. It didn’t matter much to any of them, as long as they escaped the northern vengeance that had come to seek satisfaction at last.

Joffrey did not even wipe away the spit that lingered on his chin from endless minutes of useless screeching. He was nearly purple in the face, his chest heaving and his eyes darting about with a certain lunacy to how he gripped the iron edges of the throne, mindless of how they cut into his skin. It was viciously pleasing, to watch that color drain from his face as a resounding thump echoed through the vast hall. The towering doors were barred but it was only a temporary measure. The white-cloaked knights surrounded their king with a wary set to their shoulders. Another temporary measure.

This bastard king would lose his throne before the sun rose.

Another crash against the doors. Splinters flew. It was only a matter of time. Sansa placed a slender hand upon the pillar at her side, leaning forward just enough to see the fear in Joffrey’s eyes. For all the blood and tears she had shed at his command, there was no sympathy in her heart, even as he faced the knowledge that these breaths were among his last. That day was fresh in her mind. The searing pain in her back. Joffrey’s cruel smile. The crowd roaring for her father’s blood. Ice gleaming in the sunlight.

The doors groaned and bowed inwards, giving way to the battering ram. One hit. Then another. She flinched at the noise the doors made as they hit the walls. Soldiers poured in, streaked in blood and filth, and shouting out as one.  _ For the North! _ Her heart felt as if it might beat right out of her chest at the sight of the banner that they flew. Joffrey shrieked for his men to cut the soldiers down only to cut off in a choked silence as the northern men parted and something else made its way inside on slow, near-silent paws.

Sansa’s hand fell to her side as her breath caught in her throat, feeling the ghost of Lady’s fur on her fingertips. Would she have grown as large as her brother? Grey Wind walked proudly, more than thrice the size of the largest hound in the Red Keep’s kennels and ten times as fierce, his bloodstained muzzle pulling back in a snarl as he drew ever closer to the throne. So focused was she on the sight of the direwolf that she almost missed the entrance of his human half. Soldiers bowed as he passed, walking just as proudly as Grey Wind before him.

Though his hair was slicked to his head with sweat, it gleamed like fire in the torchlight of the Great Hall. His armor was splattered with blood and he carried a sword that dripped it along the tiled ground. Robb, so different to her eyes yet with traces of the boy she once knew in his face. He stared not at Joffrey, but at the guards that surrounded him, his eyes flitting from one man to the next. He expected a fight, but these were not the legendary Kingsguard knights of their stories. There was no Dragonknight among them. No Gerold Hightower in command.

They were cravens.

One low growl from Grey Wind was all that it took. Joffrey looked as if he might be sick at any second, as they laid down their swords one by one, walking from the hall willingly when Robb nodded at a group of soldiers at his right to escort them away. Then he climbed the steps to the throne slowly, one by one, with Grey Wind at his side. Joffrey scrambled back in the seat, but it was not enough. Sansa watched, holding her breath, as her brother sheathed his sword and then reached out to wrap a hand around the monster’s throat.

“I will only ask you this once,” Robb said, his voice low yet carrying through the hall to her ears. “Where is Sansa?”

Sansa’s heart skipped in her chest at the sound of her name, echoing with such determination in Robb’s voice. Joffrey sputtered as the grip of the mailed fist tightened about his throat, lifting his hands to claw at him uselessly. It must have been frightening, to be faced with someone that had no fear of him. No need to bow and scrape at his feet. Robb lifted him from the throne easily only to toss him down the steps. With every impact of his body upon the ground, the soldiers around them jeered and laughed until Joffrey knelt hunched upon the ground with blood on his lips and trickling from a cut over his eye. Two of his fingers looked like they bent unnaturally as he lifted his hand to his throat, coughing and wheezing all while trying to catch his breath. Then he looked up with the same cruel, glittering eyes that he inherited from his mother and Sansa somehow knew what he would say next, even before he opened his mouth to speak.

“Your whore sister is dead.”

Robb froze on the spot for just a moment, emotions warring upon his face. The northern soldiers grew silent in the wake of Joffrey’s declaration, a very confident one that made her wonder. It was a spider that hid her away. The same spider that had whispered in the ears of many kings and queens. What had Varys done to make Joffrey think that she was dead when he had escorted her into the tunnels beneath the Red Keep himself? Did he produce a bloodied dress? A lying sellsword? A weeping servant?

It mattered little, in truth. Joffrey was wrong. Sansa very nearly wanted to step out and announce herself, just to see the realization on his face that against all odds, she had survived him. But she felt a more driving need to watch. Not Joffrey, but Robb. This man was all but a stranger to her. She had heard the stories. Men who went away to war and came back changed. Some more haunted than others. Some more violent than others. She did not know the Robb Stark that stood in the midst of his men with blood on his sword, the victor in this war, but she intended to find out all she could before revealing herself.

Robb took the steps much quicker, all but leaping from them before stalking to Joffrey, who tried to scramble back only to grow still when Grey Wind darted forward with a much more vicious growl this time. Robb’s hand went to his pommel and somehow Sansa knew his thoughts in that moment. Blood for blood. A head for a head. Strike with your own sword. The northern way. Then his hand fell away and he straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin and looking every inch the king that had battled across seven kingdoms and won.

“Joffrey Waters,” he announced, earning a look of utter loathing as Joffrey flushed with rage once more at the bastard’s name that he was now given. “You have torn into this realm enough. Noblemen and women from all corners of Westeros will come here to witness your trial. You will be imprisoned until then.”

The anger faded and fear took its place. Sansa realized suddenly why Joffrey declared her dead so boldly. He had not suddenly grown braver. It was his last revenge. Crouching at his feet and making a kingslayer of her brother, forever marring his honor. Robb did not fall for the bait. Sansa could have wept with relief as the soldiers dragged Joffrey from the room amidst his shrieks and curses, wishing fiercely that he would be thrown in the deepest, darkest cell that the keep had to offer.

Then the rest of the soldiers began to leave, ready to begin their celebrations of a well-earned victory. Robb did not follow, his bravado fading as he turned to look at the throne with a burdened expression upon his face. Sansa knew that she should announce herself now if only to keep him from falling into the temptation to sit upon that poisonous seat himself when someone else entered the hall. Another face from the past, as changed as Robb yet still so much the same that her heart ached at the sight of him.

He was dressed in black like the vows he might have taken, had he not ridden away from the Wall to join Robb’s fight. At his side, a white direwolf splattered with blood and mud walked just as tall as Grey Wind. Perhaps even a bit taller. The wolf brothers bounded towards one another at once, sniffing and licking at each other’s wounds as they circled the other before darting out into the night together. Jon took more time to reach Robb, a deep frown etched upon his face that was quite familiar. They shared a long stare in silence before turning to look upon the throne in time with one another.

“I always thought it’d be more impressive,” Robb admitted, his voice carrying through the hall. “But it just looks like a bloody uncomfortable thing, doesn’t it?”

Jon didn’t say a word, something heavy passing over his face that she didn’t understand. For the first time since she saw him stride into the Great Hall, something like a smile pulled at Robb’s lips.

“Good thing I don’t have to sit on it, eh?” he said, clapping Jon the shoulder.

There was an underlying meaning to his words that Sansa didn’t understand. Judging by the scathing look that Jon sent his way, he had no issue figuring out what it meant. The mirth in Robb’s eyes did not last long, fading as quickly as it had come as he glanced back over his shoulder to the splintered doors.

“He said that she’s dead,” he said in a solemn voice.

An ache bloomed in her chest at the anguish in his words. For years, as Robb and the North fought battle after battle to defeat the Lannisters with no sign of treating with them for her release, she grew to understand that she was an unimportant pawn in a greater game. In her eyes, Joffrey could have killed her alongside her father, or any time after, and it would not have made one modicum of difference. But now that she saw the look on Robb’s face, and the sudden misery that flitted over Jon’s, much to her surprise, Sansa wondered if she’d been wrong. But why leave her there if they cared whether she lived or died? She could not understand it, so she did the only thing she could in an effort to solve the mystery.

“He lied.”

The words passed her lips with more strength and determination than she expected. As they both whirled about, twin looks of shock upon their faces, Sansa stepped from the shadows into the torchlight. The anxiety returned as they stared at her, these war-strengthened men who had once been boys that played all sorts of games with her and the others in the godswood of Winterfell. She wrung her hands together to keep them from seeing how she trembled, even as Robb stumbled forward on seemingly unsteady legs. Sansa held her breath as he approached, forcing herself not to flinch away. He would not harm her, this brother that she loved even after the years spent waiting for him. Whatever she expected as he reached her, it was not to see him fall to one knee as he stripped away his gloves and took up her hand in his own. His eyes shone with the tears that gathered there as he gazed up at her.

“Sansa,” Robb breathed out as if her very name was a prayer and a blessing all at once.

She sank her teeth into her lower lip as he pressed a fierce kiss to the back of her hand. Then he began to weep, his tears wetting her skin. Sansa stared down at him with wide eyes, unsure of what to do with this bloodied man that cried at the sight of his living sister. A sister who thought herself quite forgotten until this very moment. Lifting her other hand, she hesitantly threaded it through his auburn hair, so like her own, and stroked her thumb over his temple soothingly. Robb shuddered at the touch, holding her hand all the tighter in his own.

Lifting her head as she heard the other room’s occupant shift in place, Sansa’s eyes fell upon Jon once more. He was not as much of an open book as Robb. His gaze was inscrutable, much to her frustration. Yet there was a certain softness to the edges of him, a sensation of relief and wonderment reaching out through the dark grey of his eyes. He gave her the smallest of nods that Sansa returned after a moment, though she did not fully understand what it meant. Only that it promised… something. 

Just as he turned away to leave them, she felt a sharp pull in the center of her chest at the sight of the sword that was strapped over his back.

A sword with the head of a snarling white direwolf.

*****

Once the bodies were cleared and the rubble hauled away to a corner of the courtyard, the revelry began. It lasted well into the late evening as bonfires were lit. Northern songs were shouted into the air as everyone danced reels to the beat of drums and drank their fill of ale and wine. Men and women alike toasted loudly to all that crossed their minds. The Young Wolf and the White Wolf weren’t forgotten for a single moment. Sansa remained at the edges of the celebrations, a quiet observer with one Mormont woman or another at her side at all times. They had taken it upon themselves to serve as her guards from the moment that Robb stepped out of the Great Hall with Sansa on his arm.

She dressed in one of her plainer gowns after bathing. A midnight blue creation of her own with close-cut sleeves and small silver roses embroidered at her collar and wrists. Her fire-bright hair was braided out of her face in a single plait that ran the length of her spine, nearly as long as the sword that marked her skin from the base of her neck to the small of her back. If anyone did catch sight of her, Sansa would smile sweetly and lift her own half-drank cup in answer to the toasts raised in her name, still quite shocked that the North still held love for her even if she was Ned Stark’s daughter.

Only when she found herself in the gardens did she feel as if she could breathe, making her way to the outer edge. Lyra Mormont, who was far quieter than any of her sisters, seemed to sense that Sansa needed the moment to herself without being told and kept a fair distance between them. There was a chill in the air that she hadn’t noticed before and as she sat upon a low wall and listened to the crash of waves against the shore, Sansa wondered if Robb and all his forces had truly brought winter to the south along with their vengeance. Leaning her head back against the pillar behind her, she hummed quietly along with a distant song and letting herself come to terms with all that had changed in so short a time.

It was only when she felt something cold brush against her hand that she was startled from her thoughts, gasping as she caught sight of a much cleaner Ghost at her side, his red eyes level with her own. He had snuck up on her quite capably, as silent as she remembered, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile even as she chided him softly for frightening her. He didn’t seem ashamed in the slightest, tilting his head into her hand as she reached up to scratch his ears. Something in her chest loosened as he lay down at her side, leaning his head against her legs. The weight of him was comforting, for she knew he was safe in his presence even when she noticed that someone else hovered near the edge of the terrace.

She should have known. Lady had almost always wanted to be so near to her. Sansa expected no less from Ghost. Jon looked uncertain, as if he was prepared to leave if she gave any indication that he wasn’t welcome. Where his dark hair had been tied back before, it fell loose about his face now in the same unruly curls that she remembered. Over his shoulder, she saw Lyra’s retreating back and assumed that the other woman deemed her well-guarded between a direwolf and her kinsman.

Kinsman.

Cousin.

Not brother. Not even half of one.

Another story she had overhead while wandering amidst the boisterous northerners. A revelation that made sense of Robb’s words in the Great Hall. Sansa almost hadn’t believed it until Jory Mormont explained it all to her. Howland Reed had come out of the mists of Greywater Watch with a perfect recollection of the day that Ned Stark delved into the tower of joy to rescue his sister only to come out with a small bundle in his arms and promises still lingering on his lips. Robb may have been King in the North, but Jon had been declared the heir of Rhaegar Targaryen and rightful heir of the Iron Throne. It was all there for the taking if he chose it.

Sansa wondered if he would.

Curious about this man that she no longer knew, she permitted him to remain with a brief nod and watched as the tension in his shoulders eased at once. He took several steps into the closed terrace, eyeing the hanging vines and brightly colored flowers before slowly making his way over to where she sat. Sansa watched as he climbed up onto the other end of the wall, mirroring her position as he leaned against a pillar with one foot planted on the wall, his knee bent and his arm lying loosely over it, and the other dangling freely.

He did not have his sword now, though there was a dagger at his belt. She knew it must be hard to chase away years of fighting instinct. They had won the city, but he would not go unarmed. She didn’t blame him. Even now, there was a small blade hidden in a pocket she’d sewn into her skirts. Sansa did not hide her interest, even as his head tilted towards the water and traced over the distant colors of the sunset. There was a scar that curved around his left eye and another upon his neck, starting at his ear and cutting down to his collarbone. A serious injury, no doubt, but one that he survived.

“I don’t know what to call you,” Sansa broke the silence first, confessing her conundrum.

Jon’s eyes cut to her, something knowing in their dark depths as he appraised her silently.

“I remember you by one name,” she said thoughtfully, tilting her head slightly. “But some of the men cheer another.”

It wasn’t her place to choose. She didn’t know him. He would have to tell her who he was.

“Jon,” he said in a quiet voice. “I may not have much choice in the future, but that won’t change. I only ever want to be Jon.”

Sansa thought about it for a moment before nodding slowly, finding some understanding in his words. Jon meant little to the world, but it meant everything to him. It would not have been the name that Rhaegar Targaryen gave him. Maybe Lyanna Stark even had something different in mind. But Jon was the name he was given by the man who raised him and Jon he would remain. Sansa respected him for that. She might have even loved him for it.

“Westeros could do worse,” she said, watching carefully for his reaction. “For a king.”

His face darkened at once, something vengeful rising in his eyes.

“It already has,” he said in a low, furious voice.

It did not frighten her. Even as she felt the ghostly strike of swords upon her back and mailed fists upon her face, she did not flinch. Even as she heard the long ago wails from her own burning throat, begging for Joffrey to show mercy, she did not look away.

“Yes,” Sansa said in simple agreement.

Jon stared at her for several long moments before the regret shone in his eyes.

“We should have come sooner.”

She gave him a small, sad smile and shook her head.

“Could you have?”

His silence told her all that she needed to know.

“Where did you get your sword?” Sansa asked, eager to talk about something else.

Eager to figure out more about her brother turned cousin, and apparent soulmate. The guilt he bore did not fade at her question, but she sensed that it had something to do with something different.

“The Lord Commander at Castle Black,” Jon said honestly, his eyes flitting away from her.

Sansa frowned a little, realizing that he must have been there a bit longer than she’d imagined. Long enough to receive a sword with a pommel tipped by a carving in the shape of the direwolf at her side.

“A story for another day,” Sansa said, sensing that he had no desire to speak of it.

Jon glanced back to her with eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. Sansa wondered if he saw shades of the girl he once knew as much she saw the boy in his eyes.

“We have many of those, I think,” Jon said.

She could only nod her agreement.

“I’ve seen it before,” Sansa confessed after a moment, unable to keep it to herself.

Jon’s brow knitted together with confusion now and he tilted his head to the side in silent question. He would not get his answer quite yet.

“Did you feel it when he died?” she asked, leaning forward ever so slightly. “I did. The anger. The loss. The hopelessness. And the pain.”

Sansa paused, letting it sink in before continuing, knowing that he would understand soon enough.

“I thought it would be Joffrey. I was so afraid when I woke up. But then Cersei was angry and I knew that it wasn’t him. I knew that he wouldn’t marry me as long as I had someone else’s mark on my body,” she said, seeing the spark of interest in Jon’s eyes. “Even the Lannisters wouldn’t be so foolish.”

“Sansa…” Jon breathed.

Her name was a balm on his lips, the sound of it reaching into her chest and yanking on the cord of desperate longing that had wrapped its way around her heart.

“When did you feel it?” Sansa all but demanded, her voice quiet yet firm.

Jon swallowed hard as his foot dropped away from the wall, allowing him to straddle it as he leaned forward too.

“When I left Castle Black,” he admitted carefully, his voice soft enough that no one else had any hope of hearing even if they tried. “When I decided to join Robb.”

Sansa shifted forward before he even finished speaking, displacing Ghost’s head from her thigh and earning a huff of displeasure that went ignored. Lifting her hand, she stroked a trembling touch over the scar at his eye. He leaned his face into her hand, his eyes slipping closed for a brief moment before opening once more as she spoke a single word.

“Where?”

Jon lifted his hand, gently taking her own and brushing a soft kiss over her wrist that made her shiver before guiding her palm to press against a spot over his ribs.

“There,” he whispered, staring into her eyes.

Without moving her hand, feeling as if his mark burned through his leather jerkin and scorched her skin, Sansa took hold of his other hand with her own and guided it around to the middle of her back, letting it rest over her spine.

“There,” she echoed.

Jon looked as if he was on the verge of asking and Sansa gave him the answer that he craved without needing to hear him speak.

“Your sword.”

His eyes grew wide, his lips parting in shock.

“You-” he cut off, blinking more than once before continuing. “Gods, Sansa. I-I don’t…”

Jon trailed off with a shake of his head and she knew that he was simply trying to wrap his mind around it.

“Yours?” she asked, quite curious to know.

“A dragonfly,” he said without hesitation. “Just like the one you always wore.”

Sansa pressed her hand more firmly to his ribs, her breath catching in her throat at the thought of it. She had no reason to think that he was the soul behind her mark until she saw the sword but she… she had loved dragonflies ever since she first heard the song about poor Jenny. He would have known. She knew that beyond a doubt.

“I still have that necklace,” she said without thinking.

The caution in his face gave way to something soft at her words and Sansa felt a sudden lightness to her heart that she hadn’t known in years as they stared into one another’s eyes with the knowledge that they were inextricably connected to one another.

*****

A mere day later, Sansa found herself summoned to a room in Maegor’s Holdfast where she’d never been before. Robb and Jon both refused to go anywhere near the royal wing, especially since Cersei was still under guard in her chambers. Much like her son, she awaited the arrival of nobles from across Westeros for her trial. As she entered, Sansa could have laughed at the similar disgruntled looks upon the faces of the two men within. Robb stood hunched over a table that bore several maps while Jon sat in a chair with his elbows braced upon his knees and his hand rubbing at his jaw.

“What ails you?” she asked, playing cupbearer as she poured out a moderate portion of Dornish wine for each of them.

“The fate of the Seven Kingdoms,” Robb said, the concept of it sounding more simple in such plain words than it truly was. “I want the people of the North back  _ in  _ the North with all due haste and I’d like to be with them when they go. I’ve had quite enough of the south for many lifetimes.”

Sansa hummed her agreement, handing him one cup and Jon the next before leaning her hip against the table to sip at her own.

“Winter is coming,” she said thoughtfully, hearing her father’s grave voice in her mind.

None of them spoke for several moments, letting Ned Stark’s memory take hold. Then Robb nodded his head with a sigh.

“Our concern should lie with the North yet we cannot leave the rest of the realm in chaos. So how do we keep the peace and withdraw to our lands?”

Robb turned his head towards her, making it quite clear that his question was aimed her way.

“You know the south better than anyone that I trust to ask. You’ve been at court for years. You must have overheard all manner of things that can help us,” he explained.

Sansa hesitated, her mind flooding with information that had the potential to help. But she had spent years only saying what others wanted to hear. Faced with her brother, Sansa felt quite at a loss because there was no way of knowing what he wanted to hear. They had barely talked since that night in the Great Hall. Sansa only knew the Robb that he had been before. So she pretended as if she spoke to that boy she loved and hoped that the man still proved to be as good as he had always been. 

“Jon seems like he would be the easiest answer,” she admitted, glancing his way.

“I don’t want it,” Jon said with a shake of his head.

She felt the urge to roll her eyes. He hadn’t listened.

“Good,” she said plainly, earning a confused look. “Because I said that you  _ seem _ like the easiest answer. Not that you would be. There are plenty who would be less than willing to accept a Targaryen restoration, no matter who is at the forefront of the cause.”

Jon looked relieved at the escape that she had given him and, in turn, that relief gave her comfort that he wasn’t like the other men she had come across. Men who craved power more than anything else.

“Dorne. The Stormlands. The Vale. It will be almost impossible to bring them to the table if we present a Targaryen king to rule over them, especially if that king grants Northern independence yet expects that the other six kingdoms remain under a centralized rule. Not to mention the Iron Islands.”

“You want to split the kingdoms?” Robb asked, his eyes growing wide.

Sansa turned her head in the wake of Jon’s words, meeting his eyes before nodding her head.

“I’ve seen the poison of power firsthand,” she said, her voice remaining strong. “We all have and we are better for it because we know how to avoid the mistakes of all those who came before. Let those who know their lands and people govern them. Negotiate a peace treaty to hold them all, and ourselves, to a high standard. Establish trade between the kingdoms. There is no need to keep fighting over a meaningless chair that only has the power that we give it.”

Neither of them spoke for a time, letting her words sink in.

“It was never about the Iron Throne,” Jon finally said, looking to Robb who nodded in agreement.

“When justice is served to the Lannisters, our fight will be over.”

Sansa took a longer sip of her wine, her eyes falling to the maps. Eight Kingdoms. Eight monarchs. No central power. No more potential for men like Joffrey or Aerys to bring an entire realm to the brink of ruin. As she felt an increasingly familiar gaze upon her, she lifted her head and let her eyes fall upon those deep grey depths. Jon stared back, a question written across his face. Sansa tilted her head ever so slightly towards Robb and he gave her a single nod after a moment of hesitation. It was time. Taking a deep breath, she turned her attention to her brother and king.

“There is something else that you should know.”

*****

“You’re brilliant,” Jon said softly, brushing a loose lock of hair from her face.

Sansa tilted her head to the side as a smile tugged at her lips.

“Oh?” she said, leaning back further against the wall behind her as she braced her hands upon his solid chest.

“Mm-hm,” he nodded, his thumb brushing down her cheek. “Robb and I would have twisted ourselves into knots for days trying to figure out how to get out of this bloody city without one of us having to take the throne. You made it sound so easy.”

Sansa would have made herself a liar if she pretended that his words did not make her preen with a certain pride in herself.

“You’d have taken it,” she said confidently, moving her hand to settle over the spot where she knew the dragonfly marked his skin. “If there was no other way, you would have done it. For the good of the people.”

“You think so?” Jon asked, his brow furrowing ever so slightly.

Sansa nodded, something warm and addicting growing within her as each day passed with the knowledge that he was her soulmate. That maybe the gods weren’t entirely cruel.

“You’re a good man, Jon Snow,” Sansa said, lifting her other hand to his cheek.

He tilted his face into her touch and she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to be happy now. As Jon leaned down to brush a gentle kiss over her lips, a kiss she wished desperately could have been her first, she felt a warm, magnificent hope unfurl in her chest. Hope that none but Jon could have given to her, after all that had come to pass. Hope that would certainly carry her into whatever future awaited them.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear what you think!
> 
> The mature rating will come to fruition in the next chapter, I promise.


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